The Story of Son(10)

It wasn’t long before she’d forgotten all about bleeding to death.

Michael let go of her hands and cradled her in his arms. With abandonment, she let her head fall back as he lapped at her and nuzzled her.

He slowed. Then stopped. “You should sleep now,” he whispered.

“I’m not tired.” Which was a lie.

She felt herself get repositioned against the pillow, the curtain of his hair falling forward as he made her comfortable.

When he would have pulled away, she took his hands. “Your eyes. You’re going to show me. If you’re going to do what you just did to me for the next two days, you owe me this.”

After a long moment, he pushed his hair back and lifted his lids slowly. His irises were brilliant blue and bright as neon; in fact, they glowed. And around their outer edge, there was a black line. His lashes were thick and long.

His stare was hypnotic. Otherworldly. Extraordinary . . . just like the rest of him.

His head lowered. “Sleep. I shall probably come to you before breakfast.”

“What about you? Do you sleep?”

“Yes.” When she glanced at the other side of the bed, he murmured, “Not here tonight. Worry not.”

“Then where?”

“Worry not.”

He left suddenly, disappearing into the darkness. Left alone in the candlelight, she felt as though she were floating on the vast bed, at sea in what was both a luscious dream and a horrid nightmare.





4


Claire woke up when she heard the shower go on. Pushing herself off the pillows, she put her feet to the floor and decided to do some exploring while Michael was busy. Picking up the candle, she walked in the direction of the desk. Or at least where she thought the damn thing was.

Her shin found it first, banging into a stout leg. With a curse, she bent over and rubbed at what was no doubt going to be a hell of a bruise. Damn candles. Moving more carefully, she felt around for the chair he had sat in and lowered the mostly useless light at what he’d been working on.

“Oh, my God,” she whispered.

It was a portrait of her. A stunningly deft and frankly sensual portrait of her staring straight out of the page.

Except he never looked at her. How did he know—

“Step away from that, please,” Michael said from the bathroom.

“It’s beautiful.” She leaned farther over the table, taking in a wealth of different drawings, all of which looked very modern in execution. Which surprised her. “They’re all beautiful.”

There were forests and flowers that were distorted. Vistas of the Leedses’ house and grounds that were surreal. Depictions of the rooms inside the mansion that were all a little off, but still visually arresting. That he was a modernist was a shock, given how formally he spoke and his old-fashioned manners— With a chill, she looked back at the drawing of her. It was a classic portrait. With classic realism.

His other work wasn’t a style, was it. The depictions were skewed because he hadn’t seen what he was drawing in over fifty years. It was all from a memory that hadn’t been refreshed for decades.

She picked up the portrait. It was lovingly executed, carefully rendered. A tribute to her.

“I wish you wouldn’t look at any of that,” he said, right into her ear.

She gasped and wheeled around. As her heart settled, she thought, damn, he smelled good. “Why don’t you want me to see it?”

“It’s private.”

There was a pause as something occurred to her. “Did you draw the other women?”

“You should go back to bed.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

That was a relief. For reasons she didn’t enjoy. “Why not?”

“They did not . . . please my eye.”

Without thinking, she asked, “Were you with any of them? Did you have sex with them?”

He’d left the shower on and the raining water on marble filled the silence.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“You said you won’t have sex with me. Is it because you aren’t . . . able to be with humans?”

“It is a matter of honor.”

“So vampires . . . have sex? I mean, you can, right?” Okay, why was she going down this road? Shut up, Claire— “I am capable of arousal. And I can . . . take myself to conclusion.”

She had to close her eyes as she pictured him on the bed gloriously naked, his hair let loose all around him. She saw one of those long lean hands wrapped around himself, stroking up and down his shaft until he arched off the mattress and— She heard him inhale sharply and he said, “Why does that entice you?”

Jesus, his senses were acute. And how could it not?

Although it wasn’t as if he needed to know the ins and outs of her arousal. “Have you ever been with a woman?”

His lowered head went back and forth. “Most of them have been terrified of me and rightfully so. They have shrunk back from me. Especially as I . . . fed from them.”

She tried to imagine what it would be like to only have contact with people who thought you were horrific. No wonder he was so self-contained and ashamed.

“Those who didn’t find me . . . repugnant,” he said, “those who got used to my presence, who would not have denied me . . . I found that I lacked the will. I did not find them comely.”